If not always, then forever

“O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour, forgive me of my sins, just as You forgave Peter's denial and those who crucified You. Count not my transgressions, but, rather, my tears of repentance given unto thee. Remember not my iniquities, but, more especially, my sorrow for the offenses I have committed against You.”

-

The Ronan Chapel was rather small, crouched between two large buildings. It gave the illusion of a young child hiding between the legs of their parents. Outside of it, in the underdeveloped city, the dirt path often left the floors dusty from the dried mud tracked in on shoes. For a city it was not as complete as one would expect. Although buildings were all around there wasn’t much of anything else that could qualify it as a city.

In a corner of the chapel was a confessional. It had been seen to remiss beside from one solitary visit from a week prior. As for the clergy in attendance, a nun, separate from her sisters and a priest were all that frequented the church. However, instead of their usual haunts, they found themselves, along with the county sheriff and his wife, in one of the crumbling city apartments. The apartment was found in one of the busier parts of town always bustling and filled with sound in the day. And at night a drowning sound of never ending music and buzz of liquor drifted through the evenings.

It was Mrs. Caliver, who was currently off playing bingo, who found her sitting in her kitchen next to his body. The bright red stamp of her lips printed on his forehead proved to be the only color left on his body. As for the woman, she sat on the floor in a paralyzed state of statue like shock.

Her raven black locks were cut short in a sort of flapper pixie cut, which contrasted with her glacier blue eyes. Even now, her ever present dimples pierced her cheeks. She often used to brag she was the “14th girl in Ms. Zippities Showline” but that was way back when.

She often liked to believe, late at night in front of the bathroom mirror, that she was famous. She and her neatly applied ruby red lipstick which was neatly applied across her lips would often walk back and forth and flash her old Hollywood smile. Then as suddenly as it had begun it ended with a careful wipe of a tissue, not a single trace of her youthful fantasy remained.

Leaning over the corpse, a startling vision of the woman sat with her lipstick smeared contrastingly crimson across her pale mouth, and on the back of her hand.

“Mrs. Smith?” questioned the sheriff.

“Diana,” she corrected with a voice as smooth as the summer breeze.

The house was stuffy. No amount of cartoonish hand fanning from the sheriff's wife could cool herself down. The Illinois heat persisted like a plague.

“Mrs. Smith?” he repeated, ignoring what she had said.

“Diana,” she said stubbornly. The sheriff sighed.

“Diana,” he said slowly.

-

“Orange isn’t a pretty color on you,” said the sheriff distantly from the other room. He dragged a chair from the other room and set it outside the parallel bars.

“Orange isn’t a pretty color on anyone dear,” smiled Diana.

“You look young. How old are you?” asked Diana.

“25,” he said, fidgeting with the metal star on his chest.

“Hm,” she nodded.

“How old are you?” he asked.

Diana giggled, her delicate nose scrunching up as she did. “You can’t ask a woman that silly, But I suppose since it is for official business…

“Oh no! I’m sorry you don't need to answer that,” blurted the sheriff blushing bright red.

“36,” she said, looking very directly at him. He fidgeted in his chair. His gaze seemed — at her ice blue eyes.

“Do you have any kids? I love kids,” she said wistfully.

“No,” he shook his head. “My wife. She wants kids,” he admitted.

“Did you kill your husband?” The question invaded the room like a plague.

“No,” she said.

-

The apartment was no more than a glorified shoe box, containing the bare essentials to complete something resembling a house. A kitchen with gray tiled floors, a bathroom with no tub, a bedroom with a window overlooking a dismal view of the street, a dining room with a tv box, and a faded pink checkered tablecloth. A thrifted living room couch was placed in front of a tv set. It was patterned with ugly black and white stripes that had faded to black and gray over the years of use. Two pillows, sat in the corners, tried desperately to bring some color but only made the coral clash horribly with the couch. The walls were painted white. Nothing too stark, far from clean, but white.

In a desperate attempt to reduce some noise, sister Catherine Marie switched off the tv. It did nothing to evade the noise. It seemed that everything around them got lounder. A mother scolding her children, an old couple bantering, a whole cacophony of noise invading its way into the room.

“My theory is we do whatever we need to find that girl guilty so she can be hanged and I get on with my life,” complained Mrs. Hall, Sister Catherine grimaced at the bleak indifference.

“Mrs. Hall, How would you feel if someone judged you so soullessly?” asked Sister Catherine Marie.

“I am not a criminal,” laughed Mrs. Hall. “It is so dreadfully hot.” she whined. In his youth, her husband strived to be resilient and tough. However, Mrs. Hall was quite the opposite. She was a delicate southern belle who quite liked being constantly watched over and pampered. If she was not looking in a mirror she was constantly fluffled her heat curled blonde hair.

“Riley,” she exclaimed, her voice a pitchy squeak.

“What is it Dory? I was attempting to inspect the latter rooms in place of your sheer incompetence and your husband's absence but I see I am not able to do even that.” stated Father Riley who had a rather unrighteous habit of rarely holding his tongue.

“Riley,” she pouted, her bottom lip comically quivering. “I'm burning up,” she whined. Sister Catherine sighed and turned to leave the room. “I feel like I am gonna die,” she whined. Sister Catherine took hold of every piece of self control she had built up over the years to keep herself from slapping some sense into that woman.

“Dory, don’t say that,” said the priest pulling out a chair, so that she could sit down. Afraid that she herself would say something far more insulting that Father Riley, Sister Catherine walked into the living room. A whisky bottle sat open on a desk next to the tv. The cap was discarded on the floor. Next to it was a dinner tray. A routine developed in her mind. Mr. Smith would come home after probably working at a factory, which provided most of the work, he would come home, eat, drink himself to sleep with the television playing mindlessly in the background.

“Sister Marie,” said the priest announcing his presence in the room. She swiftly turned around.

“Father,” she said. Then she repeated it in a questioning tone this time. He nodded.

“Why are we here, why is it not the sheriff or the county detective or…”

“Sister Marie. We are merely observers in the eyes of God.” he explained. She nodded. As the priest took leave to check on Dory, Sister Catherine found herself wandering through the house and in the bedroom. Sister Catherine Marie knelt next to the bed, a small piece of stationary paper peeked out. It was shredded in a rather aggressive manner. She blindly reached under the bed and found a red box. Inside were thousands of the violently cut confetti like pieces of paper, like the one in the bathroom banister. She one up and unfolded to find the words “...As for me” and another said “...happiness is a thing for poets” she grabbed another and another, the words carefully scrawled onto the page in neat — script. She found a piece that was not creased, instead if it had two rugged edges, and two perfectly straight sides, this must be a corner piece. These words are carefully slanted in a mock cursive like manner.

“Always and forever,” Sister Catherine felt her breath hitch in her throat. The paper fluttered to the ground like a final leaf off an oak in autumn. No, she hadn’t heard words in so long. And like that, the final piece of evidence was set in place, the conviction in the final act of the great play was performed. And it lay at her feet, desperately begging to be performed.

-

The girl was a star. The very flash of her million dollar smile was enough to outshine the spotlight upon her face. Flowers were thrown at the show girls’ feet. Roses, daisies, pansies… She picked up a bouquet and gave a final bow and ran off stage.

Out the back door, two girls ran out hand in hand. A daisy tucked behind the ear of one of the girls as the other carried a bouquet in her hand. They ran a few more paces, both barefoot. The cool grass brushed against their feet. Until, both arrived at a bridge. It was an old stone bridge, one often found in the area overlooking a small burbling stream. The older girl lit a cigarette between her fingers and sat smoking it for a second.

“Kitty,” said the older girl, letting out a cloud of smoke. She had a Kentucky southern accent.

“Hmm,” she answered simply.

“I want to be a star,” she said.

The other girl didn’t answer. She just looked out at the sky.

“What kind of a star?” she asked finally.

“World famous, Somethin’ like Cleopatra” said the other girl, getting up and standing on the ledge of the bridge. Her white skirt just above her ankles, accompanied with a tank top and slightly curled raven hair that flowed freely in the wind and reached almost down to her waist.

“I want to be in magazines, immortalized” she giggled.

“What do you want to be?” asked the girl, finally sitting back down and resting her head in the other girl's lap so she looked up at her.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, Kitty hardly ever knew what she wanted; she just wanted the world to spin by, around her.

“You don’t have to know. You just have to include me,” she looked up at her brown eyes.

“Always,” smiled Kitty gently.

“And forever,” laughed Diana.

-

Diana was set free soon after and left that town. Perhaps it’s fate that some of us are doomed to be starry constellations reaching out for one another while the other walks in a different scopes of life. No evidence was ever found, but underneath the bed of a solitary nun, one could find a box of shredded letters.